


'Tis the Season

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: 2014 TS Secret Santa Extravaganza, Christmas Eve, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2020-04-12 09:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19129255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Christmas Eve. It's the same thing every year.





	'Tis the Season

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 TS Secret Santa Extravaganza

"You ready yet?" Blair's voice floats up from the living room, where he's spent the past five minutes doing some sort of weird combination of pacing and bouncing, and Jim rolls his eyes as he pulls a flannel shirt from his closet and puts it on. They've been doing this for three years now — tonight will make it four — and it's the same thing every year.

He starts down the stairs, still buttoning his shirt, and right on cue Blair says, "I hope Clarabelle remembers to make pfeffernuesse. Man, those cookies are like crack."

"She always makes pfeffernuesse," Jim says absently. He's halfway down the stairs by now, but he finds himself pausing to look down into the living room.

Blair frowns up at him. "What's with the statue impression? We need to be _ready,_ remember?"

Jim sighs. "We will be. I was just enjoying the view; do you mind?"

At that, Blair glances across the room, at the (hideously over-decorated) Christmas tree he'd wheedled Jim into putting up, and beams at it briefly. "Oh, yeah, right. It's great, isn't it?"

It's not great; it's hideously over-decorated. The view Jim's enjoying isn't the view of the tree.

Blair bears absolutely no resemblance — and Jim can say this with authority — to a Christmas elf, but he's practically fizzing with enthusiasm, and he looks like Christmas to Jim. Christmas wrapped up in kitsch, naturally, with all those tiny Santa- and present-filled sleighs crisscrossing a (disturbingly) green night sky on his sweater, and his red and green striped socks, and his jingle-bell earring, and his mistletoe-print underwear.

Not that Jim can see either the socks or the underwear at the moment. He knows they're there, though. Well, he knows the socks are there; he saw them before Blair put his boots on. The underwear Jim merely suspects. It's a suspicion founded on fact and solid reasoning, however: Blair actually _owns_ mistletoe-print underwear (if he wanted to keep that information from Jim he should've kept the door to his room closed last week when he was putting his laundry away). That he's wearing it tonight, underneath his warmest (and very well-fitting) jeans, is a logical assumption.

Not one Jim's going to get a chance to actually prove, obviously. More's the pity.

"Jim! Hey, earth to Jim! Come on."

Jim shakes his head, at himself more than at Blair. "I'm coming already," Jim says as he descends the rest of the stairs, "I wouldn't want to worry Olive, after all. You know how she gets."

It's the same thing every year: pfeffernuesse will abound, Rudolph will be a little miffed, Blair will pull out the (tactless) foam antlers he'll undoubtedly bring along, and Olive will… well, Olive will be Olive.

And Jim will spend half the night speculating about Blair's underwear.

'Tis the season. Jim's used to it all by now.

 

************************************

 

Jim looks up at the stars and down at the terrain, then at the map in his hand, and sighs. "You're not allowing for the crosswind," he points out, and Rudolph snorts. Rudy corrects his course without further grumbling, however, and Jim checks the map again. Only forty more rooftops to go before they head out over the Atlantic and he can take a break. So far they've encountered rain (Portland), fog (San Francisco), one hell of a blizzard (Saskatchewan, North Dakota, Minnesota, and Wisconsin), lake effect snow (Buffalo and the eastern shore of Hudson Bay), headwinds, crosswinds, overdoses of neon (Vegas and South Beach), and low-lying cloud cover over Louisiana. Blair's pulled him out of three zone-outs — snow crystals are so… _pretty_ — and has only complained ("Cold and wet is my world") once (sleet, west side of Chicago).

Kris is humming quietly to himself — up here, where only Jim and Blair and the deer can hear him, he goes with Sinatra tunes. Once they hit a rooftop, of course, he's all "Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas" when he's not finger to the side of his nose.

Blair's humming along absently from the back seat, crowded in next to the sack of presents. He looks like an idiot, with foam antlers sticking up from the top of his ridiculous Fargo hat, and a round red rubber nose. "Frostbite protection," he'd muttered when Jim had stared at the nose as they were loading the sleigh.

Frostbite protection, maybe. But the nose, strangely enough, seems to have put Rudolph in a better mood than usual; there haven't been nearly as many pointed comments coming from the front of the traces as there were last year or the year before (or the year before that). Not that Jim can blame Rudy for being a little touchy. It can't be easy to admit that your nose isn't quite as effective a navigational beacon as it used to be.

"There." Jim points out a rooftop almost hidden by snow-covered trees, and Rudolph huffs.

"I got it, I got it," he says, and down they go. In the twinkle of an eye, it will be thirty-nine more rooftops. Then a brief break over the Atlantic, swinging up across the Labrador Sea, then Greenland, and North America will be done. Which leaves only six more continents (and a couple of dozen cruise ships) to go.

Same thing every year. It'll be a long, long night, but they'll still be back at the Pole almost before they left (anomaly of the space-time continuum, according to Kris; Jim tries not to think about it too much).

They touch down on the roof with a clatter of hooves, and Kris eyes the chimney with obvious appreciation. Solar panels and heat pumps just aren't as much fun for the guy.

Antennas aren't all that much fun either, and Jim has to untangle Vixen's antlers from an inopportune antenna while Kris is busy inside. It's the same thing every year.

 

************************************

 

"Pfeffernuesse! I love pfeffer— Hey, is that springerle?" Blair heads towards the impressive spread of cookies, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, while Kris and Jim veer off to the table Clarabelle's set up with the drinks. The punchbowls are still brimming with eggnog and wassail and spiced rum, despite the well-sauced piles of elves littering almost every horizontal surface in the workroom. At least there's no snoring to be heard at the moment, only an occasional jingle of bells when an inebriated elf rolls over in his sleep. The elves must have started partying the moment the sleigh lifted off to start The Run, however many hours… days…. weeks… whatever it was ago, space-time-continuum-wise.

Kris smiles fondly at his plastered elves. "They earned it," he says. "You have any idea how fiddly all this new electronic stuff is? Computers, I'm telling you. My little friends here had it a lot easier when it was just wooden blocks and rag dolls and the occasional model train set."

Clarabelle clears her throat pointedly, and Kris gives a laugh that shakes his belly. "Ho," he chuckles. "Ho, ho. So I love my iMac, Bella; sue me."

Clarabelle flinches. "Hush, dear," she says, nodding towards the corner where all nine members of the team are refreshing themselves with some cranberry vodka, "the _deer,_ " but it's too late. Comet abandons his drink and yells, "Pinball!", starting a stampede toward Kris's office, and Kris, Clarabelle, and Jim wince. Reindeer aren't really all that well-equipped to play pinball on an iMac.

To no one's surprise, Blair doesn't wince. He just grins and heads toward the office, trailed by Olive.

Trailed a little too closely by Olive. Of course, it's not Olive's fault that a reindeer's nose naturally occurs at a somewhat…compromising height, but that doesn't stop Jim from doing a little pointed throat-clearing of his own. Olive looks up, her big brown-velvet eyes all starry and bemused, and Jim sighs. "Never mind," he mutters. So she gets close enough to "accidentally" bump her nose against Blair's ass once or twice. It's not like she's getting any more than that. And it is a very nice ass; Olive has good taste in unrequited… feelings.

Jim knows that feeling. _Those_ feelings. He heads toward the eggnog; Clara always puts enough bourbon in the eggnog to knock the unwary right under the table, and Jim wouldn't mind being flat under the table right now.

It's the same thing every year.

 

************************************

 

The reindeer are still going at their pinball game hot and heavy, if Blitzen's excited shouts and Donner's groans are any evidence, when Blair wanders out of Kris's office some time later. "Hey, Clara, here you go," he says, plopping a big red velvet bow on the top of Clara's head and kissing her cheek. Then he grabs some wrapping paper and drapes it around her shoulders, finishing it off with a couple of loops of shiny silver garland. "So Kris can unwrap you later," he says in a stage whisper when he's done, and Clarabelle giggles. She's been hitting the eggnog pretty hard.

Then she starts singing "Santa, Baby," somehow managing to out-Eartha Eartha Kitt, and suddenly it's Kris's turn to clear his throat. "Boys," he says, "thanks for your help, but it's getting a little late, don't you think? Same bat time, same bat channel next Christmas Eve?"

Which is clearly a rhetorical question, since he doesn't even wait for a reply, just puts his finger aside his nose, lets his eyes twinkle twice, and Jim finds himself in the loft, slouched down on one end of the couch with Blair sprawled on the other, in front of their over-decorated Christmas tree.

Jim's not even disoriented this time. After all, it's the Same. Thing. Every. Year.

 

************************************

 

Except when it's not the same thing.

Blair's singing to himself, almost under his breath. " _Think of all the fun I've missed._ " He's no Eartha, no Clarabelle either, but he can carry a tune, Jim will give him that much. " _Think of all the fellas I haven't kissed…_ "

His voice trails off, and Jim feels a yawn coming on. He should get up and go to bed. It's been a long night.

" _Haven't kissed…_ " Blair repeats, very softly, and stops singing again. When he goes on —" _So hurry down the chimney tonight_ " — he's whispering more than singing, but there's a note in it that has Jim pausing just as he starts to haul himself up off the couch. Blair sounds almost… wistful.

Wistful? What the crap has Blair got to be wistful about?

…Olive?

Oh, hell, no.

Conveniently, therefore, Jim's already frowning when Blair says, "So, uh, Jim. You weren't actually jealous of Olive back there, were you?" and huffs a forced-sounding laugh. "I mean, she's a _reindeer._ "

 _A reindeer who was feeling up your ass,_ Jim retorts silently and possibly a little sourly. Clara's eggnog has worn off and he's not feeling quite as charitable as he was earlier. He's not feeling charitable enough to actually answer Blair out loud, either; an eye roll and a little more _oomph_ in the frown department should be good enough.

"A reindeer who was _feeling up my ass?"_ Blair parrots, if squeaking can be called parroting.

Squeaking isn't really that good a fit for Blair's voice. Blair has a… well, a _nice_ voice, normally; all smooth and rich and —

Hold on a minute here, _'parroting'?_

Jim freezes. "I said that out loud, huh?" he says, out loud. Calmly. After all, it really wasn't that incriminating. If he'd said, instead, "A reindeer whose nose was getting a lot closer to your ridiculous mistletoe underwear than I'll ever get the chance to —"

"You want to get close to my underwear?" Blair's voice has gone even higher.

Jim unfreezes just long enough to close his eyes. "I did not say that out loud. Tell me I didn't say that out loud."

Maybe he groans. A little. As if that helps. As if anything, at this moment, could —

"Okay."

— help. If he just sits here long enough, maybe Blair will give up and —

"Jim. _Okay,_ all right? Stop freaking out. I mean, I'm freaking out, but I think I'm allowed to. Give a guy a clue next time. "

"I'm not freaking out," Jim protests. He doesn't open his eyes. He's stopped groaning; opening his eyes would be overkill at this point. Completely unnecessary.

On the other hand, he was a Ranger. He's been through SERE training, for God's sake.

He opens his eyes, just as Blair says, "My underwear is your underwear."

Jim closes his eyes again. He's imagining this entire conversation, he has to be. Blair's gone to bed. Blair always goes to bed ten minutes after they get home from a Run. Pfeffernuesse might as well be Sominex as far as Blair's concerned.

It's the same thing every year: Blair always goes to bed ten minutes after they get home. Therefore, Blair is in bed right now; in bed, and _not_ sitting here calmly (if you ignore the squeaking aspect) beside Jim on the couch, offering up his underwear — and apparently the contents thereof — to Jim.

Next year Jim's staying the fuck away from Clarabelle's eggnog.

"Wait," Blair says — well, Jim's imagination says, not _Blair,_ since this conversation isn't really happening — "wait, that didn't come out right." Jim's imaginary Blair sounds nervous now, a self-deprecating little laugh chasing his words. Jim decides that Imaginary Blair is chewing his lip, something Jim's wanted to do for quite a while himself. "C'mon," Imaginary Blair says, still sounding nervous, "throw me a bone here, Jim."

Jim rolls his eyes. His Imaginary Blair is clearly about twelve, sexual-innuendo-wise, but then so is the actual, non-imaginary Blair.

Jim sighs, then realizes he's staring at the ceiling — apparently rolling your eyes isn't really satisfying unless you open them first. He rubs the back of his neck (a little tension there, go figure) and glances toward Blair's room, where Blair is by now sleeping off too many cookies and too much reindeer Pinball and maybe a little too much "Santa, Baby" (it's the same thing every year).

Well, he intends to glance at Blair's room, but his glance doesn't actually make it there. It trips over its feet and falls flat on its face before it makes it past the far end of the couch, where Blair's sitting.

Blair hasn't gone to bed.

Blair hasn't gone to bed; he's sitting right there, chewing his bottom lip, and looking as nervous as he sounded a minute ago. "Okay, uh, so I got this wrong, right?" he says, and offers a painful little chuckle like it's an apology. "You're not…" he says. "You don't… That wasn't…"

"Stop," Jim says, and regrets his choice of words immediately when Blair tenses like he's on the verge of getting the hell out of Dodge. "I mean stop _that,_ " Jim adds, gesturing vaguely toward Blair's room, where presumably Blair was planning on going to ground, "not stop _that._ " He tries to think of a gesture for the second 'that' and fails.

Blair doesn't look like the light bulb's going to switch on any time soon, and Jim sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He's already confessed to being jealous of a reindeer, though. What the hell. Not much dignity left to lose, after that. He sighs again. "What I'm trying to say here is, if you get up off this couch before we get this straightened out, I'll probably trail after you like Olive."

Blair blinks. "Like Olive. Like Olive?" He's still tense, but it's suddenly a completely different kind of tension, a tension that looks hopeful instead of panicked. When he goes on speaking, his voice is hopeful, too — and gratifyingly hoarse. "Jim? Seriously?"

What do you know. Apparently, it's _not_ the same thing every year.

Not this year, anyway.

"Seriously," Jim says.

So maybe his voice is a little hoarse, too. He can always blame that on Clara's eggnog.

 

************************************

 

Jim cracks one eyelid open with effort. Early morning sunlight is pouring in through the skylight, Christmas music is playing down in apartment 201, and a strand of Blair's hair is tickling his nose. Everything's just as it should be.

He's about to let himself sink into sleep again — it was a long and active night, and he's not quite as young as he used to be — when his glance falls upon his dresser. More specifically, upon the lamp on his dresser. More specifically than that, upon the underwear that was apparently tossed over the lamp on his dresser at some point last night.

Huh. After he gets some more sleep, he's going to look up the genius who came up with the idea of mistletoe-printed underwear and buy him — her, whoever — a drink.

Next to him, Blair makes a snuffling sound, his face smushed down into Jim's spare pillow, and presses his ass a little more firmly against Jim's hip.

Make that two drinks.

Hell, three.

'Tis the season, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Olive is the Olive of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" fame (or infamy), as in "Olive, the other reindeer…" 
> 
> 2\. Song lyrics are all from "Santa, Baby."


End file.
